


Prizes over Discovery (V)

by Keiko Kirin (sakana17)



Series: Prizes over Discovery [5]
Category: Master and Commander (movie), Master and Commander - O'Brian
Genre: Age of Sail, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-25
Updated: 2004-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakana17/pseuds/Keiko%20Kirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many thanks to Thevetia, and to Dorinda.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Prizes over Discovery (V)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Thevetia, and to Dorinda.

> Ashgrove Cottage  
> Wednesday
> 
> My dear, sweet Husband,
> 
> I received your sweet parcel and I read your letters every evening. It is a great joy to have my beloved Husband here with me in words if not in person. I am doing very well, I thank you. Mama returned from Ulster the week of your leaving and is in fine spirits though she is so very frail. She has been very comforting. We had the good fortune of a visit from Cecilia. Her daughter grows amazingly and is a dear and happy child.
> 
> I wish you could see the cabbages! How they are growing! I look forward to your return, when I shall prepare them for you in the way you like best. The new chickens have produced many fine eggs. We are quite sustained here and are not wanting for anything -- except your presence, my darling Husband.
> 
> Howsoever, it is a joy to me to find you are so beloved in the Navy -- though they cannot love you so well as I, my sweetest Jack -- for several of your friends have called in your absence, and they have such kind words for me that I blush to hear them. Particularly Captain Pullings, who stopped here with his wife, who is so dear and pretty. She brought me a fine partridge-pie. How I wish you had been here to taste it! I am determined to make one for you upon your return, but I am sure it will not be so fine as Mrs Pullings.
> 
> Another of my sweet Husband's friends who has called is Captain Greenway. He has taken lodgings in Horndean, and stops by the cottage often. Mama finds him great company, for he is so wise about exchanges and business. But my dear Jack, Captain Greenway tells me that you owe him £100 from a past business between you. I have not paid it. I am certain you would have told me of such a debt, though I know it is not so very great.
> 
> Tuesday
> 
> My darling: I am but a poor wife, for setting your letter aside for so many days! Mama and I are now in Bath. Captain Greenway was calling on Mama everyday, and he mentioned a business which interested Mama greatly, but I happened to call on Admiral Haddock -- our very great friend, I am sure you will remember him from when you and dear Stephen lived in Melbury Lodge -- and he told me some things about Captain Greenway which did not allow me to rest easy. I persuaded Mama to travel to Bath and we are staying with her dear cousins. I have such pleasant memories of Bath, my beloved, as I hope you do. Particularly of the night at Wolmer Cross!
> 
> The Reverend Mr Hincksey has been a very kind and attentive friend to us. He and his sister came to call at Ashgrove several times. The Reverend brought us to Bath in his shay, as he and his sister have many friends here they desired to visit. His very kind hospitality to us on the journey has not ceased now we are in Bath. He has called on us twice and escorted us to a piano concert where his sister -- she is so pleasant and refined -- played most beautifully. I think of how poor my playing at Mapes was and blush from the memory.
> 
> But, dear Jack, there is a serious matter I must mention to you and know you will be discreet. Cousin Diana is here! I had no knowledge of it at all. Miss Hincksey mentioned it the day before yesterday and Mama was so very severe that I was afraid she would order a coach and return home. I do not like to see Mama so upset, for her health is poorly, as you know. For my own part, I cannot stand to meet Diana, though already I have seen her in the park. She is here with a man, and it breaks my heart to think of poor Stephen! You must not tell him -- please. I cannot bear to think of his poor wounded heart. He was so very low when he called on me before you sailed -- he told me it was because his prized opossum had perished, but I could see his heart so very plainly. I am so happy you are with him. He needs you almost as much as I sometimes, and your love will comfort him as it does me.
> 
> Saturday
> 
> My darling: I must end this note or it will never end! Last night the Reverend called and took me and Mama to another concert where Miss Hincksey was to play. Diana was there with that man. I was civil to her, for she is my cousin still, but no more than civil, I assure you. Mama spoke to her not unkindly. Diana and that man were not outrageous, but with all of Bath talking of them, it hardly mattered. I wondered that they were invited at all, but it seems the hostess is a relation to the Villiers. Diana was very beautiful -- I do so wish I could wear red as she does! -- and pleasant to me in her own way. But you would not credit it: she asked after Stephen! She asked if I had had word from him. I wondered that she could be so very bold, although she is always so, so I should not wonder. I told her I had not read a word from him -- it is not a lie, because I haven't had a letter from him since you sailed, and his words to me in your fine, sweet letters were in my dear Husband's handwriting as I can tell very well, for your hand is so pleasing to me and so wonderfully clear to read.
> 
> We shall not have to risk meeting Diana again, for the Reverend Hincksey has told us that she and that man are leaving for Cape Town presently. I believe the man owns an estate in those parts.
> 
> The page is coming to an end, so I will, too. There is a very kind Marine officer staying with the Hinckseys who is leaving to-day for Plymouth and he will carry my letters (for I have also sent a note to Stephen -- but I have not mentioned Diana) and I pray that they will reach you in safety and good health. He will carry my letters -- but not my heart, which remains yours, my sweetest, dearest Jack, to carry always! God bless you and keep you, and return you to me as soon as ever.
> 
> Your loving and devoted wife,  
> Sophie  
> P.S./ I have knitted you two pairs of new stockings, and one pair for Stephen, and I have desired Lieutenant Michaels to take them with the letter.

\-----

> in Bath  
> Thursday
> 
> My dear Stephen,
> 
> You are so very kind to send such sweet words with Captain Aubrey's letters. They are very dear to my heart, and though you do not write them yourself, I assure you they are treasured as much as a letter in your own hand. I hope and pray that you are well and looking after my dear Husband. He is so very fortunate to have you there with him -- as I am certain he knows very well -- and it comforts me exceedingly to know you will take care of him when he is so very far away from his home and family.
> 
> Mama is well, I thank you, although her health has been frail of late, so we have come to Bath. My dear sir, I know I must not dissemble to you, and I will tell you this and trust your confidence -- I have taken Mama to Bath for one of my Husband's naval friends has become a nuisance. He claims that he is owed £100, but will not tell me why, and he has filled Mama with tales of riches to be made in exchanges and businesses which I do not understand, being so very simple myself, but dear Admiral Haddock has cautioned me, and he is a fine gentleman whose word I value. The captain has also been quite familiar with me, out of Mama's company, and so bold and free that I could not stand it. I am afraid of what I might say or do if I see that man again -- but then, I hope I have not spoiled a friendship between him and Jack. I do not understand the complex workings of influence in the Navy, and I should be wretched if I have caused Jack some vexation when he returns to us.
> 
> It is lovely being in Bath. I think often of our time here -- how sweet you were with me in the chaise when we waited for Jack. How I wish you were here, and I could talk to you freely! It has been so very long, I think. It seems so. But no doubt it has been such a short time for you and for my Husband, while I am here with Mama watching the fine ladies and gentlemen walk in the park while I am doing the mending. But I must not sound lonely! The Reverend Mr Hincksey and his lovely sister have often come to pay their respects. They have been so very kind to me and especially to Mama. There is no awkwardness between us, if you understand me. The Reverend is so delighted in his sister, who is much admired, and is so witty and charming in his manner that many of the unmarried girls here are pleased to walk on his arm. The dear things look so very young -- dear Stephen, was I so very young and silly when you were here with me and we waited at the cross for Jack?
> 
> Now I must find the way to write to you a thing I find so very difficult. You are a doctor as well as my sweetest friend, so I know you will understand me. When you stopped at Ashgrove before sailing, I almost told you then -- now, indeed, I believe it was the hand of God himself that stopped me. I hoped to be confined very shortly. Mama was quite certain of the signs, if I was not. But it was not to be -- I am sure it was my fault entirely. I had walked to the market the day before it happened, and I am sure the exertion must have done it. How I wish you had been here, for I trust your opinion in these matters above all others! Mama was so very kind and sent for her doctors. They are very learned men, I am sure, but it would have been a great comfort to hold the hand of a friend. The doctors agreed that I would do very well and I was not to worry myself over it. I do try not to think of it so very much, for the disappointment is almost unbearable -- how I long to be a mother! -- and perhaps the nuisance of the small matters I must look after is a blessing in this way, for while I am fretting over the bills, I do not think of the loss. And I am quite determined not to ruin my health -- there must not be another mishap, should I become so blessed again -- and I have returned to drinking my porter with dinner, as you counselled me so long ago.
> 
> Dear Stephen, I have written so plainly, and it is grievous to me but that you are a friend and my doctor so I am certain it is well for you to know. I must beg of you: do not tell Jack. He knows nothing of it, of any of it, for he left for Portsmouth before I had any signs. He must never know. I am sure it would quite crush him -- you know well how he feels things. And as it was entirely my fault, I am silly and vain enough not to want my Husband to be disappointed in his wife. I know you shall understand, and I know I can trust you to keep this our secret between us. When you return, I will beg of you to give me your opinion.
> 
> I apologise for writing of such matters when speaking of them would be more fitting. My hand is trembling. You will find this a very poor letter to read! If it is unintelligible, perhaps it is for the best. One thing I will write clearly: you are the dearest friend to me and to Jack, and we love you best. Please take care of my darling Husband and take care of my darling, sweet friend Stephen. May God bless you and return you to me as soon as ever.
> 
> Very affectionately yours,  
> Sophie  
> P.S./ I send you a pair of stockings I have knitted in a parcel for Captain Aubrey. Yours are the black pair and I hope you will find them warm.

\-----

> H.M.S. _Surprise_  
> at sea
> 
> My dearest beloved Sophie,
> 
> I have sent three parcels of letters since Gibraltar, which is where I heard last from you. It is a grievous hardship and I had hoped to find a parcel waiting in Simon's Town. The admiral blamed the tempests which have besieged our waters of late, and we encountered them ourselves (we are quite safe and sound), so I know very well the fault rests with the weather, and not with my sweet and darling wife.
> 
> I have been thinking about improvements to the cottage and have made some sketches I will enclose. You will see in the first my idea for the stable, and in the second a wing for Mrs Williams and a nursery (for when we need it, my darling). I see no reason why we can't begin the stable, so please write to Mr Omanney and ask for an advance on the prize-money from the _Humanité_. That will make you stare, I believe: it is true she carries 64 guns, but she did fire upon us first. And we found her in a mauled state (she had just engaged and taken the _Tethys_, the dog) and undermanned. She will need repairs, but it would be madness to condemn her, and I believe my share of the prize-money will pay for a small stable, a horse and carriage. I despair to think of you walking to the market when a pretty little carriage would answer nicely.
> 
> Apart from our luck with the _Humanité_ it has not been a very lucky voyage. In Simon's Town, I lost Stephen! That is to say, he is not lost, for I know where he is -- he is in the governor's house in Cape Town -- but he is not aboard, and I feel the loss of our dear friend keenly. While we were put in to Simon's Town, the doctor went on one of his natural walks and although I sent with him Bonden and two reliable sober men, he endeavoured to fall down a cruel slope and get bitten by one of the vile reptiles that inhabits those parts. The men carried him to town quite delirious -- I do not blush to admit it to you, darling, but my heart stopped on seeing him, he looked so pale and cut up. But with the aid of the governor's surgeon Stephen nursed himself back to health. You know how strong the doctor is, and a little reptile would not succeed where larger brutes have failed. I was very sure of putting to sea with Stephen aboard, but (and you will not credit this, my darling) the port admiral ordered Stephen to stay. I know very well why -- it has nothing to do with Stephen's health, I am sure, for I saw him before we sailed and he looked well enough -- the governor suffers from ill health and the port admiral knows what a prodigious great physician Stephen is. I am quite certain he held Stephen back to present him to the governor. It would be un-Christian of me to whine, and of course I wish the governor's health restored, but it is very hard nevertheless. I did not think the admiral could be so mean, and I would never have believed Stephen's acquiescence if I had not witnessed it with my own eyes. It was as though he wished to stay in Cape Town. Perhaps the poor fellow needed more rest than I imagined, but I had it planned to make Stephen a comfortable berth in my cabin and he would not have wanted for anything. And the sea air is so restorative, of course. I do not like to think of him at the Cape in ill humours.
> 
> Perhaps seeing how high he was treating me, the admiral did me one nice thing: he held us in port until the transport arrived with Mr Mowett, who had taken the _Humanité_ to Gibraltar. Now you will say that one first lieutenant is surely worth one physician, but you are to remember, my dear, that this is our beloved Stephen, and a whole brace of lieutenants could not equal one Maturin. The admiral also gave me the governor's surgeon, Mr Pelham, and although I am sure he is a capable man in his own way, I find him disagreeable. He smokes a foul pipe, for one thing, and he is a Whig, for another. He has such a familiar way about him that I would believe he is baiting me with his Whiggery if I thought him capable of subtlety. I believe his talk oppresses the gun-room greatly, and I feel for poor Mowett, who must bear it. For my part, I have not entertained the officers often, and your husband is a solitary and rather unjolly soul at present. I think often of our evenings at Ashgrove, my love, and I miss your smiles and laughter.
> 
> If our wind holds true, and I believe it shall, we will raise the Cape again in a fortnight, and I will bring Stephen aboard if I must lash him to a shroud myself. And then, God and His Majesty's Service willing, we will fly to you on the next tide. Until then, I send you a thousand kisses and hope I shall receive a thousand in return.
> 
> Your very loving husband,  
> Jno. Aubrey  
> P.S./ I have enclosed another plan for the garden. Might we try some strawberries abaft the roses?

\-----

> The Clovertons  
> Cape Town
> 
> Stephen,
> 
> I am too sensible to ask you to forget what I said in the garden last evening. But as we think so much alike, I am certain you have already seen how impossible it would be. He has asked me to go hunting with him on his land in the north. We leave tomorrow morning. Thank you for the gifts. I cannot wear the necklace, so I am returning it. Please remain my closest friend -- without your friendship I believe I would destroy myself with grief.
> 
> Diana

\-----

> H.M.S. _Surprise_  
> at sea
> 
> Dear Sir:
> 
> I require and direct you to take the next transport for Bombay where you will report aboard H.M.S. _Surprise_ without the loss of a minute in capacity as ship's surgeon to His Majesty's frigate named above which I have the honour to command.
> 
> Yours very sincerely,  
> Capt. Jno. Aubrey

\-----

> H.M.S. _Surprise_  
> at sea
> 
> My dear Stephen,
> 
> The packet from Simon's Town has just arrived with two great parcels of mail. A quick examination of the contents showed none from yourself, but I have two from Sophie -- one is addressed to you and I enclose it herein. As the packet is waiting, this will be a hasty letter.
> 
> I have sent your orders under separate cover. The packet brought word of the governor's return to England and his replacement, and I understand Cape Town now to be overrun with surgeons and physicians. Their need for you cannot be greater than mine.
> 
> I hope I find you in the best of health and spirits, and that you have not vexed the governor's servants too much in your recovery. I am well, despite the hardship of having no doctor to remark upon my weight and complexion. I have grown quite fat you will find, with no great battles or activities to amuse me.
> 
> Capt. Quinn, that fine fellow, has sent us some music from London. I have kept your 'cello with me, quite safe and sound. Please do proceed to Bombay with all speed -- with a true wind on the transport, you may well arrive before we do. I shall look for you riding an elephant to the quay. I have much to tell and show you from our little voyage in your absence.
> 
> I remain yours very affectionately,  
> Jno. Aubrey

* * *

When Stephen slept the moist warmth of night wilted his hair into curling wisps that clung about his face: it was of these Jack was thinking. Jack lay in his sleeping cot in a drowsy half-wakeful peace of being. He smiled, his eyes closed, and his fingers stretched in yearning for the touch of those soft curls damp against Stephen's skin. He would run his fingertips -- then his lips -- over the fine and solid-boned edges and arcs of Stephen's face while Stephen slept -- finally to touch Stephen's lips: their inviting unresistance, their pleasing fullness which caused an arousing warmth deep in Jack's belly and lower. He would know Stephen through the lightest touch of his fingers and sometimes -- sometimes -- he would allow Stephen to sleep on.

Stephen was not here at present. He was not aboard the _Surprise_, so that even if Jack, in his current mad state of desire, would cast aside all sense and caution and go rushing into Stephen's cabin to sate his yearnings -- he could not. Clinging to the haze of sleep, Jack sated his immediate need in a solitary and perfunctory manner which left him restless and frustrated. No Stephen to wake with kisses and rouse with the palm of his hand cupping, gliding, and caressing. No Stephen to clutch and hold on to. No Stephen to enter him with that startling, thrilling determination of spirit and lust: lips pursed, sweat beaded above them, hands grasping Jack and guiding him. Pale eyes the choppy roiling waters of a tremendous tropical storm: power, heat.

No Stephen to watch after the storm had blown, sweeping them both and casting them together. Adrift together; and Stephen's lazy, gently amused smile as he would stretch his wet satisfied body with a languorous ease and thread his fingers through Jack's hair.

This last phantasm caused a sharpish pang in Jack as he held it in his longing, waking dream -- it was a particularly private and affectionate gesture of Stephen's. Sophie was forever pushing Jack's hair out of the way -- he had taken to wearing it plaited to bed when home at Ashgrove -- and of the women he had known, none had touched it with the same indulgent pleasure and confident possession. Jack found it greatly soothing. He wished to be soothed now, but his sleep was gone, his restlessness remained, and the smell of Killick's coffee signified that it was time to rise.

Time to rise, and the smell getting stronger, but no coffee waiting. "Killick there!" he cried, stamping through the great cabin and tying his hair back. No response but the pervasive, alluring smell. Jack threw open the door and found Killick kneeling and holding out a spoon of pap made from hard tack to a shadowy, skittish creature. The coffee tray sat on the deck, quite forgotten. At the sight of Jack, the creature drew back into deeper shadows and whimpered. Killick edged closer to it, offering the spoon. With a sigh of exasperation, Jack picked up the tray and carried it in himself and thought himself the most charitable and good-natured soul in all of Christendom for not kicking Killick across the deck.

He drank his coffee and opened Sophie's letter again. There was much to like about the letter -- Sophie's round, nearly illegible hand filled him with the most tender love -- but there was also much to dislike. Greenway! To think of that scrub nosing around Sophie with a blackguardly tale of being owed money: it made Jack's blood run cold. Quite sensible of Sophie to take her mother to Bath, although it did mean seeing more of Reverend Hincksey. Jack had never forgotten that Hincksey had once been a rival, although not a very serious one. But he was not pleased to have a past rival, serious or not, taking his wife around in a shay. And then there was this mention of Diana. In Bath with a man was one thing: of course Sophie should be upset. But then the mention of Cape Town, and Jack hated where his suspicions led him. It had to be a coincidence, nothing more. And since Sophie had never learned to date her letters, it was entirely possible that Diana had either already been to Cape Town and left, or would arrive there well after Stephen was on his way to Bombay.

The door opened and Killick carried in a plate of toast which he set before Jack with a loud clatter. "Which I was just about to bring your majesty's coffee in when the doctor's beast got loose again," he muttered, glaring at Jack, who ignored him with a cool: "Thankee, Killick." Killick then flung open the chest with more force and noise than was completely necessary, snatched up Jack's best coats, shirts and breeches, and marched out with the whole bundle, murmuring with a triumphant leer, "Which it is mending day as you ordered it yourself."

So it was that Jack came onto the quarterdeck with his nightshirt tucked into a pair of old and yellowed nankeen trousers. It was a hot, humid, languid day already, and a haze in the direction of Ceylon had settled over the sea. There was just enough of a breeze for the _Surprise_ to be making three knots. Jack climbed to the crosstrees with his glass to scan the wide empty blue around them for a hint of sail. Seeing none -- although it was difficult to penetrate that haze -- he came down a backstay like a youngster, leapt onto the deck and tossed his clothes off.

"I am going for a swim, Mr Munro."

"Yes, Sir," said Mr Munro who, like all the old Surprises, was by now accustomed to his captain's strange ways. Mr Pelham, on deck to smoke his clay pipe, was not an old Surprise and stared openly with a look of strong disgust. Mr Franke, the new Marine captain, was also not an old Surprise: he laughed aloud, unchecked by the disapproving looks from the hands around him.

Franke's laughter followed Jack through the air, was cut off by the crash into the water, and then Jack was in the peaceful blue. He dove down, far down, to inspect the _Surprise_'s copper. They had scraped her at the Cape, but she would need another vigourous cleansing in Bombay: the trail of weeds was long and murky. Jack broke the surface with a spray of bubbles, and with powerful strokes swam out from the ship until he was quite alone.

Alone in the warm calm ocean, surrounded by a grey-green-blue that was so familiar to him that it did much to calm his restlessness. He splashed in the water and dove again, racing beyond an unseen current -- the slightest shift of the caressing blue around him. Then he broke the surface with a triumphant, ecstatic surge of being, and gazed fondly at the _Surprise_.

Though he was not very far from her, it was as if he watched the dear old barky from a great distance: her gentle rocking and sweep of movement. It was a beautiful sight: one he wished he could share. As he swam back with slow and deliberate strides he recalled the times he had brought Stephen into the water with him. How pleasant it would be to have Stephen beside him: wretchedly swimming, or rowing along in a boat and talking on and on as if Jack were sitting with him. How pleasant it would be to have Stephen waiting for him aboard: reading in the great cabin, ready to be disturbed with a soft kiss and a caress or two.

Jack sighed. The bubbles rushed through his nose and mouth. The _Surprise_ loomed nearer. And Bombay could not be close enough in this empty, empty sea.

Not so empty, however. As Jack drew nearer to the _Surprise_, he spotted a strange sail a point or so abaft her stern, distant and coming up slow but their paths would cross unless he altered the _Surprise_'s course. He slowed and floated there, watching the sail for some time: she was very, very slow, and the spark of excitement which had flared now cooled. Reaching the _Surprise_, he climbed up the side and strode naked and dripping to the quarterdeck where his officers had the sail in their telescopes. Killick appeared and threw a shirt over Jack's head, grabbed the drenched streams of yellow hair and twisted them into one queue, muttering that the captain should be dressed as a Christian if they were to meet any French bastards. He shoved a pair of breeches into Jack's hands.

Jack was stepping into his breeches when Mr Adams, a midshipman, squeaked at him, "Oh, sir, we have spotted a sail. Fellowes saw it first, sir."

"Very good, Mr Fellowes," Jack said kindly to his other midshipman, a once pale and uninspiring lad who was now deeply brown and had only one eye, the other having been lost in brave fighting. "Mr Mowett, Mr Munro: I believe we may hold our course and prepare to reduce sail. Killick there, check the supply of claret." Mr Mowett touched his hat, nobly hiding his disappointment. Mr Munro nodded sagely. Mr Adams and Mr Fellowes turned to stare at the sail in a desultory or even resentful manner. Jack smiled and said lightly, "I believe we shall be entertaining some guests from the Honourable East India Company in a few hours. Mr Andrews, you would favour me greatly if, in that time, you could get this deck cleared and Navy-like. That Flemish coil, for instance, is the most hellish and offensive sight I have ever seen, upon my word."

\-----  


Governor's residence  
Cape Town

> My dear Sophie,
> 
> Your letter and fine stockings have reached me at an opportune moment when I may enjoy them in my leisure, for I have become of late a pampered and lazy jack-a-bed, enjoying the tranquility of the Cape. My mornings are spent with breakfast, my afternoons with exploring, and my evenings are mine to command: sometimes a hike over the rocks to watch the moon rise, sometimes a cigar in the governor's garden, and sometimes a dance. Yes, they have dances out here, too -- none so fine as Captain Aubrey's at Melbury Lodge, of course, the Cape being somewhat lacking in its number of yellow-haired, portly English naval officers. But what it lacks in Aubreys it makes up in other ways: its rough beauty, its wondrous beasts and insects, and a serene silence in the evening that I cannot describe adequately. It does not exist in England, and certainly it does not exist at sea, where there is no silence at all.
> 
> I hope the fanciful beginning of my letter has diverted you, my sweet. I was most concerned by your melancholy tone, and I wish that I could fly to your side and comfort you. You are not to worry about the loss of the child. It often happens and with no ill effects, and in a robust woman such as yourself I am quite certain it will be of no lasting consequence. Drink your porter and take more walks, and do not distress yourself with gloomy thoughts. You will do more damage with melancholia than with any kind of exertion or labour. And you are not to forget how sadness ages the face, my dear. Do not allow your loveliness to fade.
> 
> How pleasant to be in Bath. I have very fond recollections of our time there. You were neither so young nor so silly, I assure you.
> 
> I will endeavour to return your good husband to you as soon as I may, which shall not be as soon as you would wish it, I regret to inform you. He was to return to the Cape this Sunday sennight, but in his stead I find a brusque and cold letter directing and requiring me to sail for Bombay to rejoin the _Surprise_. You would not credit what a fearsome, tyrannical ogre he becomes once aboard ship and drunk on the heady fumes of power. However, the journey to Bombay will be a happy one, for on the boat I find an old sail-mate, Lord Blakeney, whom I am sure you will remember. He has grown into a fine young man but has lost none of his boyish spirit.
> 
> We sail on the next tide, and already I am oppressed by the naval obsession with timeliness. I must end this with a hasty kiss.
> 
> Very affectionately yours,  
> Stephen Maturin

The night was black, and the moon was huge, rising over jagged rocks. The same moon that watched over England? It seemed impossible. The English moon had never been so commanding. And yet the Irish had known this powerful moon, certainly.

Stephen leaned against a rock and watched the moon, and now the stars came out, drawn by command. Following their leader, their lover, he thought, and silently chastised himself for the clumsy parallel. Jack as the moon? No, it did not answer. Bright he was, but not the frigid white glow of the moon. Jack's power was the sun: golden and warm. In pagan myths, he would be the charioteer driving the fire-disk across the sky.

He had been reading too much. Since Diana's departure on the hunting trip, Stephen had spent too many hours in the governor's surprisingly varied library. The governor's late wife had been a reading lady, it seemed, and had been fluent in Greek and Latin. But her tastes had not run to Stephen's: no natural history, no geography, and far too many religious tracts polemical against "the vile poperie" for Stephen's comfort. The discovery of a section of classical authors was therefore a relief, and for days Stephen was to be found in the garden, next to the giant ferns, reading Greek history and pagan mythology.

Now the library was packed up, returning to England with the governor. A sad old man, quite happy to be going home. The house was in a state of upheaval -- out with the old and in with the new -- and Stephen was quite content to leave it. Young Mr Blakeney -- how tall the lad was! -- had overseen getting Stephen's meagre belongings (a case for his clothes, for his medical instruments, and one for the specimens he had collected here) on board and with great reluctance had let Stephen go off on his own for a final sojourn, admonishing him to keep the boats within sight. Stephen had done so: there they were, clearly visible under the moon's white gleam.

A few calls and a bosun's whistle drifted up from the bay, soft and distorted and as it were from another time and place entirely. Up here it was only Stephen, the rocks, the moon, and his letter to Diana. He unfolded the paper and read:

> Diana,
> 
> I sail for Bombay on the next tide. It will be strange to be in Bombay without you. Of course you may wear the necklace. It is useless to me. I enclose it.

And if he were able to write so frankly and openly, he would have added:

> I remain your friend, but if you persist in destroying your friends, is not your own destruction inevitable? Unless you overstate your reliance on friendship.

But he could not, and did not, and had not signed the letter. He stood and looked down at the boats rocking gently on the water. He drew the necklace from his pocket, and the lone, small emerald shone black under the moonlight. He walked to the edge and held the necklace out but could not let it go. It was not a precious thing, not precious enough to tempt Diana for more than an evening, yet he could not let it go. He wrapped it in the unsigned letter and stuffed it in his pocket and began his slow, careful descent down the rocks.

One of the boats had already departed by the time he reached the shore, and another was about to cast off. "Doctor!" cried Mr Blakeney, relieved -- but with a disapproval the younger Blakeney had not been capable of. The young gentleman hurried to Stephen's side, took his arm in a surprisingly strong grasp -- it was as if the loss of his right arm had doubled the strength of his left -- and urged him along.

"Mr Blakeney!" Stephen protested, attempting to pull his arm free. "I am not late. I kept the boats within sight, and here I am, as you can see. Now, I just have an errand to run... A letter to be delivered to Clovertons..."

His words fell on deaf ears: the curious deafness of naval officers determined to meet a tide. Stephen was passed from shore to boat, from boat to ship, in the darkness made the acquaintance of the short, burly Captain Sheldon, and was shown to his cramped guest's cabin. There he sat on top of his sea-chest, withdrew the crumpled unsigned letter, and stared at the necklace in his palm. Useless thing.

"And the Dear knows she would never have worn it," Stephen reflected, lifting the gem to the lantern to watch the golden light filter through the green. For a fleeting moment he imagined it around Jack's neck; the vision was so ludicrous that Stephen smiled, then chuckled to himself over his ridiculous fancy.

Later, in his cot, rocked by the aviso's bracing flight, he mused on the association of gems with lovers. Was it indeed as simple as possession? A coloured stone to mark the wearer as belonging to the giver? Stephen despised possession, and yet he could not dismiss the small thrill it had given him to clasp the necklace around Diana's perfect, pale neck. And then again, he thought, perhaps the desire for possession was only strong where there was no hope of it. But he was not convinced of this. He did not and could not possess Jack; he doubted if anyone, even Sophie, ever would, for to possess Jack would be to contain him and prevent his great good abounding spirit from spilling over. Impossible, Stephen hoped. He could not possess Jack, nor did he want to.

"No gems for you, my dear Aubrey," Stephen murmured, holding the necklace up so that the emerald dangled at the end, swaying with the boat. Green would never do, anyway. Lapis lazuli, perhaps, or a fiery topaz... But no, Jack needed no such adornment. A cold stone would be lifeless against such life. And as he thought this, a forceful, vivid vision of Jack -- naked, a-glow, urgent and eager, at the moment of connection -- overcame Stephen and filled him with the deepest ache. He stayed awake for a long, long time, the necklace abandoned on his breast, and his eyes closed as he brought memory after memory of Jack into his mind, as if through memory alone he could conjure up the reality.

The true wind held. The aviso was a sweet sea-nymph: this was apparent even to Stephen, who had sailed on ponderous and sluggish ships and had always held the dear old _Surprise_ as the model of nautical speed. As a guest, he was at leisure to enjoy this speed and enjoy his days at the rail, watching the white foam spray from the ship's sides. He was often joined by Mr Blakeney, when the young gentleman's duties did not keep him occupied. Stephen was pleased to learn that Mr Blakeney had not lost his interest in natural wonders, and one evening was delighted to leaf through Blakeney's sketch-book. With an increased control over his left hand, Blakeney's skill at drawing had improved vastly: Stephen was genuinely impressed. He studied the detailed sketches of insects, worms of various kinds, and a couple of lizards. Turning the page, he paused and said, "That is never an insect, Mr Blakeney."

Blakeney looked at the open page, blushed, and took the book from Stephen's hands. The drawing was innocent enough: the back of a young woman, her head partly turned, and particular attention had been given to the curve of her neck and perfect ear and the sweep of her hair. Clearly drawn from life, Stephen decided, curious to know more but disinclined to ask.

And so the journey to Bombay was swift, pleasant, and uneventful. They arrived in the humid, dusty, dirty city on a hazy morning, and Stephen wandered the docks looking out to sea for the familiar shape of the _Surprise_. He did not spot her, and was standing and shading his eyes when Mr Blakeney joined him, directing two strong hands who carried the doctor's belongings.

"Where shall we send these, sir?" Blakeney asked, glancing curiously in the direction Stephen faced. Then sensing Stephen's search he said with a touch of pride, "I believe we have out-run the _Surprise_. Or she may have met a Frenchman: I heard from a merchantman that Admiral Linois is said to be in these waters again." He paused, and in the silence Stephen took a breath to master his disappointment.

"Well," he said at last. "Then I must seek out lodgings until Captain Aubrey's return." He turned away from the water and scanned the dirty hive of streets, a thousand warring scents, sights, memories and emotions assaulting him under the merciless sun. "This way, I believe. It has been a year or so, but I will know the way when I pass a familiar landmark."

Up, up through the dusty streets, past the plaintive calls, the religious chanting, the unguarded laughter, and Stephen found that he did know the way. They soon passed a goldsmith's he remembered well, and on they walked, through squalid alleys and a confusion of markets, until Stephen found the house he sought. The same ancient white-haired man sat by the door; he kissed and blessed Stephen's feet as Stephen entered. Mr Blakeney and the sweating, muttering seamen followed with Stephen's cases. Mr Blakeney cast a dubious look back at the doorway and said, "Oh Doctor, sir, do you not wish to stay in one of the English houses? There are some very clean ones near the yards. They give you breakfast in some of them."

"An English house, is it?" said Stephen, climbing the creaking stairs. "Breakfast, forsooth. No, all I require is a roof, some light, and peaceful neighbours. This will answer very well." He opened the door to a large shabby room with a window overlooking a small square in the back. The men, relieved to unburden themselves, dropped his cases onto the floor; a disturbed snake slithered away from the bed and fled out the open window. After much persuasion Mr Blakeney and the seamen left, and Stephen was alone. He sat on the floor, smoked a cigar and watched the light disappear from the room until it was black and silent, and the blackness masked its emptiness.

\-----

The _Goshawk_ was an ugly, fat, slab-sided, and above all slow slug of an Indiaman, and her master, Mr Tildon, was a stupid unseamanlike ass who should never have stepped onto her planking: this was Jack's opinion, and it was an opinion most of the _Surprise_ shared even before they overheard Jack's words to this effect emanating from the great cabin. Apart from the one-hundred-and-ninety-odd eavesdroppers, Jack was confiding his opinion to the curious little great-eyed creature in his cabin. It had fled from Killick's hard tack pap during the first dog watch, and was now hanging in the darkest corner it could find, cowering from the imposing form of Jack pacing fore and aft. When he paused in his stride to glare out the stern windows at the Indiaman -- what was that man thinking, spreading more sail? She was already overpressed -- the pitiful creature, a souvenir from Sofala, seized its opportunity for escape. Providentially, Killick opened the door to bring in the candles, caught the beast in his arm, and was heard to mutter something remarkably like, "There, there, pet," before handing it off to the Marine sentry. Jack gave Killick a hard, curious look, and Killick almost spoke, thought better of it, and simply left the candles on the table and retreated. Jack watched the _Goshawk_ for a few more minutes, sighed in disgust, and went above.

"Mr Mowett, I believe we may set the mizzen topsail, otherwise we'll lose our friend again."

As he returned below, he felt the _Surprise_ respond perfectly: her progress slowed to a crawl, and Jack sighed. At this rate, they'd be lucky to raise Bombay before the end of the month. Stephen would most certainly be there already. _I mustn't whine_, Jack thought, casting another dark look out the stern windows at the Indiaman. But he was impatient to reach India, return the _Goshawk_ to her owners before Mr Tildon ran her into a French ship-of-the-line, and see Stephen again.

His impatience proved well-founded. He was roused in the morning by the cry of a sail on the horizon, and his intense observation of the stranger two points off the larboard bow strengthened his conviction that it was Linois again. Or, rather, Linois's heavy frigate, the _Armide_. They had already met her once -- the day they had spoke the _Goshawk_ \-- and had only managed to save the merchantman by luck: they had kept the _Armide_ busy with broadsides and bow chasers until after nightfall, allowing the slug to slip away and setting off one of the boats as a decoy. A risky ruse de guerre, and Jack had not been certain that the _Armide_ would believe it, or that the _Goshawk_ would manage to run far enough and not be caught by the sunrise. Luck had stayed with them that day, however; now it would take more than luck.

"She's very persistent, sir," Mr Munro remarked, holding his glass steady. Only the Frenchman's topsails were visible over the horizon, but Jack gauged her speed, glanced aloft and calculated the wind, and smiled grimly.

"She may find she don't like us very much today, Mr Munro," Jack said. "Mr Fellowes, signal _Goshawk captain_, if you please. Mr Mowett, I believe we may pipe the hands to an early dinner."

Mr Tildon didn't like them much that day, either. He didn't like gunnery, but he also didn't like to be thought of as shy, not by the Navy, and he said little when Jack came aboard, bringing two of his better gun captains and a handful of well-trained men eager for battle: for the Surprises had guessed Jack's plan. Mr Tildon had not, and his grim silence finally broke when Jack outlined it.

"Take her?! Sir, I must protest. As you yourself have been so fond of remarking, this is not a man-of-war. My twelve twelve-pounders against a heavy frigate like that? Even with the kind loan of your men, sir, you must see that it is quite impossible. My cargo..."

"Your cargo will end up in Linois's lap, Mr Tildon," Jack said calmly, "without we do some biting of our own. The _Surprise_ will have the weather-gauge, and we are not caught unawares this time. Yes, the _Armide_ is heavy, but she is a trifle slow. We have all the advantages we can possibly hope for. Now, sir, you will obey my signals to the letter, and perhaps we will sail into Bombay yet."

Jack left the _Goshawk_ unconvinced of Tildon's courage -- he had sometimes known it in Company men, and it was possible that when the roar of the guns began, Tildon would find it at last -- but he had faith in Tildon's lack of initiative, and planned accordingly. If the merchantman did what she was told, and if the Surprises on board could turn gunners out of Tildon's rather indifferent Lascars, the odds were slightly less against them.

_Oh, how I wish Stephen were here_, Jack thought as he went up the _Surprise_'s larboard side. Quite apart from the necessity of a really handy doctor on board for the battle wounds -- and Jack could not credit such a disagreeable soul as Mr Pelham with much in the way of surgical skills -- he would like to take these few minutes of calm to lay it all out before Stephen: not as a captain seeking advice or obedience. Jack could admit only in the privacy of their conversation to his own doubts, and then rid himself of them by explaining his strategy to Stephen, who sometimes held an opinion but usually trusted Jack's own with a reassuring absolute conviction.

"Mr Pelham," Jack said with strong discontent. "I believe your place is below."

Pelham sucked on his pipe before replying, "Mr Andrews assured me it would be some time before the battle began, sir. I beg your indulgence so I may finish my pipe."

Jack stared at him for a moment, then advanced upon him with all of his contained anger. "Sir," he said in a low voice, "I have indulged your pipe for far longer than I should have, and as you have never served aboard a man-of-war before, I have indulged your grossest behaviours. I will not, however, allow you to disregard a direct order from your captain. You will go below and join Padeen in preparing what physics and bandages you will need for the wounded. You understand me, sir? Right this minute... Yes, yes, what is it, Killick?"

"Which it's the doctor's animal, sir," Killick muttered meekly. "I wrapped it in a blanket and took it down to the hold, where it might be safer like."

Jack watched Pelham's form retreat down the companionway. "Very well. Thankee, Killick. The doctor will be uncommon grateful to you, I am sure." His eyes met Killick's and without acknowledgment, he knew that the thought had passed them both: there was only one doctor, and it was not Pelham. _I suppose they all miss him, in their own ways_, Jack reflected. He went below to shift into his second-best coat and silk stockings, and prepare his boarding pistols.

\-----

Stephen did not return to the quay every day, although sometimes his walks took him there. When the _Surprise_ came in, someone would surely find him. His certainty wavered only slightly when the aviso left Bombay, carrying Lord Blakeney and anyone else who knew where his lodgings were. But it was no matter: Bonden had found this place before when Stephen had stayed here, somewhat more than a year ago, when the _Helen of Troy_ had put in. Jack had stayed with the ship; Stephen had indulged his haunting memories and had retraced the steps of his wanderings with Diana and Dil. A fat sweating unpleasant Company man and his meek bored polite wife had moved into Canning's house. No tigers. No elephants. They had insisted on showing Stephen their hospitality -- the wife fairly clutched his arm in desperation for company -- and had served him hot bitter tea in an exquisite gold-rimmed tea cup. No, they had not known Canning; had heard the rumours of course. Some rum affair over a lady. What could you expect of a Jew? the husband said. No, nothing so interesting had happened since they had arrived: positively no immorality or great dramatic scenes (this said wistfully by the wife). One of the Company wives had jumped into a river and drowned herself, poor silly thing, but other than that... And would the doctor like another cake?

Stephen called on them now; his loathing for their insufferable smug complacency and sense of English superiority was tempered with a strange amused affection. And seeing them in that house slowly blunted the memories of seeing Diana in that house. Today they were not at home: the house was quite empty. A snake wound its way round a brass idol on the porch, and Stephen crouched to watch it. It paused and lifted its head at Stephen, tongue flashing, then lowered and slithered on.

"And good day to you, honey," Stephen said to it, smiling. Rising to go, he noticed a pair of dark eyes watching him through a shutter. He bowed his head, and a door opened. The servants led him inside, patting his arms. They were sorry, they were mortified: the mistress was in England, the master was in Calcutta. They did not know the gentleman was expected. Stephen explained he was not expected, but they were still sorry, mortified, aghast. They brought him tea, sweets, a cushion. He gently resisted their attendance by inventing a sudden pressing engagement; they bowed and smiled. Would the sahib care for a cooling drink? He could enjoy it while they sent for an elephant for the sahib. Stephen was about to refuse this when Jack's letter came to mind. He accepted both the drink and the elephant.

Some while later, on the rising, falling, rolling back of the elephant -- a shy young female -- Stephen sat under a blue and gold parasol held by a young boy sitting behind him. The boy was cheerful and talkative: in a speech mixed of Urdu, English, Persian and languages Stephen could not guess. They rode through the streets taking a zig-zag haphazard route. Stephen closed his eyes under the blue shade of the parasol and listened to the sounds of the streets, caught the smells -- sweet, pungent, foul -- and felt the hot damp breath of the air upon him. When he smelled water, he opened his eyes: they had reached the strand.

There were a number of craft crowded near the quay: certainly those were English ships, some quite large. He scanned one of the nearer ones and noticed the barrels on deck, the fanciful gold trim, the somewhat smaller guns, and believed her to be an Indiaman. Her neighbour also -- and her neighbour had been knocked about: there were holes and gaps along her sides. Stephen paid the boy, the elephant kneeled, and Stephen descended, thanking her in her great fluttering ear. Men -- seamen, officers, merchants, servants, men from everywhere -- swarmed the docks, took boats to the ships moored farther out, brought boats back, unloaded cargo, loaded cargo, shouted and called and directed activity around them. Into this chaos Stephen stepped, looking around him, sensing anger, frustration, disappointment. A small boat pulled up and quite suddenly and incredibly, two of the oarsmen jumped ashore and started fighting each other. Some sailors gathered to watch, but most ignored the scene. Stephen walked on, catching words, patches of conversation: "burned," "those French buggers," "shocking blow," "eighty-thousand," "all hands lost." At this he stopped, intending to catch the speaker and inquire, when he saw two things: a tall black seaman with a bandage around his head, and over the seaman's shoulder, lying to some distance from shore, the HMS _Surprise_.

Stephen looked closely at the seaman: he was not familiar, not one of the Surprises. He approached the man and asked, "Pray tell me, what is about, now? Was there a battle?"

The man grinned at Stephen and said in a broad West Country accent, "Doctor Maturin! You don't remember me. Tall Bill, foretopman on the _Polychrest_." He brought his knuckle up to his forehead. "Yessir, there was a battle, a little one. We was on the _Pandora_, she's that pretty sloop-of-war there," he said, pointing, but Stephen barely saw her for his attention was fixed on the _Surprise_. From this distance he could not tell if she was seriously damaged, but he believed there was something amiss with her masts. From Tall Bill he learned that Admiral de Linois had indeed gone hunting for fat laden Indiamen, and had taken three. A swift-sailing advice-boat had spotted the French fleet and had met the _Pandora_ and a transport out of Ceylon and two ships of the line out of Calcutta. A hasty engagement: they had not retaken the prizes; Tall Bill had been hit by debris when his gun exploded; he was lucky -- the gun captain had been blown apart. They had damaged a little French brig, but the Frenchmen had the wind in their favour and flew away.

Tall Bill was recounting the _Pandora_'s run for Bombay, manning the pumps night and day; Stephen impatiently watched the ship. Did that boat come from her or not? Could that be Barret Bonden? He squinted, but it was quite impossible to tell. Tall Bill's story trailed off as some of his shipmates surrounded them and pulled the seaman along. Stephen walked a snaking trail through men, ropes, animals, his gaze passing from the _Surprise_ to the boat that could have Bonden on it: back and forth as he came closer. Oh, for Jack's glass.

"Why, Stephen, there you are."

Stephen stopped and slowly turned around, dreading what he might see: an enormous gash, a missing eye, an empty sleeve. Jack stood there: whole, healthy, no worse for wear than want of a good shave. He beamed at Stephen, and his eyes were brilliant, bright. Stephen believed he smiled back, but the moment was so disorderly: he was aware of very little but Jack's look of strong, overflowing affection. The urge to touch him was great, very great. Stephen stepped closer, taking another, more critical look.

"Your sleeve is singed," said Stephen, taking Jack's wrist and holding it up. "There are charred holes on your coat."

"Oh, I dare say," said Jack carelessly. "There was flying, burning debris everywhere, you know. It could have been very much worse." He paused, looking grave and distracted.

Stephen patted his arm and released it, saying, "So there was a great battle, I understand. Come now, will you have some dinner and tell me about it?"

"Thankee, Stephen, I must attend to some things -- should take no time at all, then I am your man. I should welcome a dinner. I have never felt so starved."

They walked to the East India Company house and Stephen waited outside, sitting under the shade of an awning and watching the water and the boats and the press of activity. Presently Jack emerged, shaking the hand of an unseen man inside. "Very handsome of them, I must say," he said with a smile as he joined Stephen. "Most uncommon grateful to me for bringing the _Goshawk_ back. Said I should refit as I liked: no question of payment. Gratitude makes a change from the miserly accusations and whining that sometimes meets us at home, not to mention the downright thievery and lying..." He paused, conspicuously aware of the disloyalty in this statement, and quickly added, "But they are still only merchantmen, poor fellows." He adjusted his hat, setting it straight, and walked with Stephen through the hazy crowded streets. Little children followed them: a trail of children, some begging, some mocking, some in awe of the impressive naval officer's uniform -- one child kept trying to pluck the buttons from Jack's sleeve. "Are these beasts yours, Stephen?" he cried over their chattering, laughing din.

"For what purpose would I require such a brood?" said Stephen, glancing about for assistance in getting rid of them. None came, but none was needed, for when they rounded the next corner a procession of horses and elephants -- a prince and his retinue -- filled the street, and the children abandoned them for the gold and scarlet and yellow of the parade. Now the street was quite empty, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

In the doorway, the old man of the house kissed and blessed Jack's feet, patting the briny leather of his boots while Jack cast a nervous glance at Stephen. The stairs creaked under their weight, and Jack said, "What curious places you find, to be sure, my dear." And then they were in Stephen's room: alone with the window closed and air close and hot. Jack carefully set his hat on the lone table and took off his coat; he was sweating from the walk. He loosened his neckcloth, saying, "Well, Stephen, shall I begin at the beginning? Or shall I start with the--"

Stephen silenced him with a kiss, a kiss he was most unwilling to end, for Jack answered it perfectly: very eager, very desirous. They clasped each other until from the strength of their embrace Stephen thought they should break. Slowly, lingering on those ridiculously pretty lips, Stephen drew back and with searching, grasping hands unfastened, unbuttoned and untied Jack's clothes until he was more naked than dressed. He slid from Jack's embrace: down, to the floor, to his knees and there he took Jack, consumed him utterly and completely. The dusty air around them was disturbed by Jack's harsh breathing, and when the pure bright sunlight slanted in through the cracked shutters it gleamed upon Jack's wet skin.

In the stillness which followed Jack's choked gasp and deep inhalation and exhalation of breath, with the feel and taste and scent of him permeating Stephen's being, and the moist hot air clinging to them, Jack bent and kissed him and pulled him up. On the crumpled low bed Jack sat and took his boots, stockings and breeches off; naked and impatient he plucked at Stephen's clothes until Stephen pressed him back across the bed. Stephen paused, amused, aroused -- and looked at him: all the heat of the sun, all the strength of the sea smiling up at him and moving restlessly under him. Stephen touched Jack's lips, and Jack took his fingers and kissed them, kissed his palm, kissed his wrist; and now the impatience faded. They were wrapped in each other, wholly at one, slow and calm and lazy and thrilled by each other until in exhaustion they slept, drenched.

\-----

The room was dim, and Jack was aware that Stephen had woken. He slid his hand along Stephen's thigh and kissed the back of his shoulder and said, "You promised me dinner."

"So I did, too," said Stephen without stirring. Jack sighed; he did not wish to move either -- Stephen was resting against him: a comfortable warm weight -- but his stomach, long accustomed to the naval day, knew it had missed its dinner and was beginning to complain. Stephen rose and went to the window, opening one of the shutters; the last rays of the afternoon sun lit the dusty air in the room. There was a bowl on the table, covered with a cloth. Stephen lifted the cloth and brought Jack some flat-bread, a green mango, and a curious, hardened piece of spiced meat. "I believe it is lamb," Stephen said as Jack bit into it. "This is all I have, sure, I was not expecting guests." He smiled softly and went over to a little alcove set into the wall where there was a brass basin and ewer. He splashed some water on himself: Jack ate and watched him, pleased with the sight. He was very fond of Stephen's lean and angular shape -- knew it so well, clothed or unclothed; like his voice and his eyes and the sound of his cello, it was distinctive, familiar, beloved.

Jack finished his meal -- enough to quiet his stomach, at least -- and washed the sticky mango juice from his face in the basin. They sat on the bed side-by-side with their backs against the wall and legs outstretched, facing the window to catch each whisper of the evening breeze. Jack had much to tell Stephen, but found he was desperately curious to know what Stephen had been doing all this time: however, it would not do to ask. If Stephen chose to confide, he would do so in his own time. Surprising himself, Jack began at the end, with the _Armide_.

"The _Goshawk_ kept her busy on her starboard quarter: here," he said, tracing a line on the bedspread, "and the _Surprise_ came up and raked her stern." He traced another line and paused. "Why the man did not strike to us then I do not know. His mizzenmast fell into his main. Such damage." He shook his head, remembering. "The _Goshawk_'s Lascars made a fine set of holes in her. Pretty work. Better than I had expected. Then we came round, completing the circle, do you see, and gave her a full broadside on her larboard. I think he would have struck then -- there was a hesitation."

Jack stared out the window at the soft hot evening with its strange smells and sounds. He pressed back against the wall: it was slightly cool against his skin. "Tildon on the _Goshawk_ understood before I did. Perhaps he saw something, or perhaps it was a merchantman's sense for preserving his cargo. He broke away, spreading sail and signalling for us to follow. God's my life, Stephen, I am not sure if I owe our escape to Tildon or to my own fury -- I thought the man was shy, you know, and a damn fool. The _Armide_ was silent -- she was striking her colours, I thought -- so before I knew what I was doing I gave the order to turn about. Just as Bonden took the wheel, I saw the first flames coming out the _Armide_'s gunports. There was no pause to consider it: you know how it is in battle, when everything happens at once. So it was now. No more had I seen the first flames than the entire ship was a-flame, and all we could do was run from her as fast as ever we could."

Stephen took his hand and held it, palm upward, laying his other hand upon it so that his fingers were covered and embraced by Stephen's. Jack sat in silence for a moment, then continued: "There was no hope, of course. They knew it, the poor souls: men jumping into the water, some of them on fire, making for her boats. Some damn fool cast off her cutter with only five men aboard: I saw him do it, quite plainly. Panicked, I suppose, for they rowed toward her, not away -- out of their wits, I dare say. And that's when the fire reached her magazine."

After a pause -- the room was dark now, poorly lit by a meagre lamp -- he took his hand from Stephen's and slid lower, resting his head on Stephen's lap. Stephen tugged at his hair-ribbon -- more hair was out of it than held by it -- and pulled it free, and stroked and combed Jack's hair with his fingers. Jack said, "We doused everything that fell on board. Anything at all like a spark. Even long after the _Armide_ was gone, little Adams was running around pouring water everywhere, poor fellow. We sent the boats out to look for survivors: precious few, I'm afraid. Tildon did the same, and between us we only picked up fifteen men. Three died outright. I wish I had had you aboard, Stephen -- perhaps we might have saved them. I say nothing against Mr Pelham, of course: I only meant--"

"Of course," Stephen said quietly. "I understand entirely. Are the Armides in hospital here, now?"

"Yes. I saw to that directly we came in. Mowett took them over in the launch. Pelham went with them. Perhaps you might see them? I believe one of them is Spanish. There are a couple of Surprises with them. Old Whittaker copped it in the leg, and one of the Swedish twins took a shocking blow to his face. We were damn lucky, though," he said at last with a sigh.

Stephen brushed the back of his hand along Jack's brow and cheek. Jack caught his hand and kissed it and looked up at him. "So, Stephen: how was your journey from the Cape?" For this seemed a question which was not too prying; and Jack did not wish to think about the _Armide_ any more: the men in the water, their screams, the burning debris, the terrible explosion. He had seen it happen before: and far worse, in fact -- but it was never a sight to become accustomed to, never a sight that would lose its horror.

"My journey was very pleasant, I thank you, dear," said Stephen. "Mr Blakeney was my companion, and I saw not one but two great sea-cows. Mermaids, as you sailors so charmingly call them, although I do not believe one of them was a maid at all, but a sea-bull. We might have been birds -- great soaring sea-birds -- for we flew across the water: and I have been here ever since, enjoying my leisure before it should be disrupted by a great portly sea-officer who devoured my only dinner, the creature."

Jack chuckled and kissed Stephen's empty belly. "I shall buy you a new one, old Stephen. Come," he said, rising from the bed, "I must get back to the ship soon, and I will buy your dinner along the way. Should you like to come aboard tonight?" he asked when they were dressed. He looked into Stephen's eyes as Stephen handed him his hat and said, "I should like the company, you know" -- hoping this was not coming it too high.

Stephen only smiled and kissed his brow; but later, after they had dined in a quay-side tavern full of Company men, Stephen walked with him to the waiting gig and accompanied him to the _Surprise_. They came up the larboard side, without ceremony. The men on watch smiled on seeing the doctor and touched their knuckles to their foreheads, while the officers on duty -- Mr Munro, Mr Andrews, and Mr Fellowes -- expressed their very great pleasure in seeing Doctor Maturin again, and hoped he was well. Jack left him with their polite inquiries and welcomes and went below to check with Mr Lamb. When he had finished checking the ship, satisfied that her repairs were well in hand, he followed the growling of the cello to the great cabin where he found Stephen tuning and sawing.

"Did you play much, at all, on your own?" Stephen asked as Jack set his coat and hat on the table and took off his neckcloth. He fetched his violin from the locker and strummed it lightly with his thumb.

"Sometimes," said Jack, unable to recall when the last time had been. They played for a while, an old favourite they knew by heart, and paused for Jack to call for Killick and their toasted cheese. On seeing Killick's mean, shrewish face Jack remembered the animal. "Bless me, I had forgotten," he said, having told Killick to run and bring it up. "We brought you a beast from Mozambique. Killick has grown rather attached to it, I believe; though it is a pitiful thing, and doesn't seem to like me at all." Catching Stephen's mildly suspicious look, he added, "I have not given it any grog, upon my word and honour."

The beast was brought: Killick seemed reluctant to hand it over, but Stephen's astonished delight changed Killick's dark mutterings to a pleased shuffling, "Weren't no trouble at all... peaceful little thing... likes its hard-biscuit pap and any kind of ripe fruit... climbs about in the rigging after dark..." The animal stretched its arms and went easily into Stephen's embrace, curling its long tail around Stephen's forearm, and Jack felt a pang of envy: the creature had never willingly come near Jack at all.

"We believed it was a lemur. When we put in at Sofala, I asked most particularly after them, and one of the trading men there seemed to know what he was about and brought us this." Jack came closer and lifted his hand, thinking to pat its bushy head, but it clutched Stephen and it gave Jack a reproachful look that checked him. "However, Mr Tildon's pilot, who knows something of beasts, told us it was a galago. I was most disappointed, upon my word. After fagging all over Sofala, we brought back the wrong cove. I am very sorry we did not find your lemur, Stephen: I know your heart was set on seeing one."

Stephen smiled at the animal and at Jack, and said, "My dear, the galago is a close relative of the lemur, and much prized. I have read only one account of them, and that somewhat incomplete, so this is indeed a treasure. Your trading man did not disappoint: he went one better." Looking fondly at the creature and lifting its chin with his finger, he said, "A noble trusting peaceful animal -- a female if I do not mistake."

Jack watched Stephen entranced by the galago and moved off to leave them in privacy while he ate his toasted cheese by the stern windows. When Killick brought another bottle of wine -- unnecessarily, since there was half a bottle left -- Stephen handed the beast over to Killick's solicitous care. Joining Jack on the bench he asked, "And how was Mozambique? You have never mentioned it."

Jack stared out the open window, idly watching a native craft glide across the dark water, and considered how much to say. The treacherous wicked channel would hold little interest for Stephen, he was sure: the challenges there had been nautical and navigational, and only a highly detailed and necessarily technical explanation could answer. And the landfall -- Sofala, with its vast harbour: Jack did not think he could adequately describe his impressions. The lush green vegetation and fine bright shore, the colourful birds everywhere, and the frail little native buildings in the shadow of the imposing Portuguese forts and churches -- but all this was merely the backdrop, behind the large, heavy ships: slave ships, and the town busy with slave trade. Open markets and Portuguese and native traders leading line after line of naked black men and women and children in irons and chains. Arab traders and money-lenders negotiating with Americans and Brazilians who coolly watched the spectacle as if at a horse fair. Indeed, with less compassionate interest than at a horse fair. And the evening they had left Sofala Bay, the strange disturbing drums in the distance, and the wild screeching calls: the explanation weeks and weeks later one calm night in the _Goshawk_'s cabin, when Mr Tildon's pilot had sucked the last of a nut out of its shell and said casually, "That would be one of their war-parties, sir. They often make raids, very troublesome for the Portuguese."

"Forgive me, dear," Jack said, "but I am so very tired, I find." He looked at Stephen sitting next to him, warmly lit by the candles on the table, and took his hand. He smiled, rubbing Stephen's fingers, and said, "I am afraid you will have to sleep here tonight, Stephen. Pelham has not shifted out of your cabin yet, and there is no question of sending you back in a boat at this hour."

Stephen gave him an amused and skeptical look, touched his cheek and said, "Then there is no hope for it, I find," smiling.

Jack had missed this very much: rocking in his hanging cot with Stephen's arm around him -- there was little room for two and little choice in how to sleep, but Jack found it quite comfortable and soothing to have Stephen holding him and breathing against his hair, sometimes kissing it. He had not really felt very sleepy at all -- had merely wished not to talk anymore -- but now he closed his eyes and, warm and deeply contented, he fell asleep instantly.

He woke in the grey beginning of morning, greeted by the sound of Stephen's soft breathing in his ear and the familiar, expected sound of the holystones on deck, though they sounded somewhat distant and somewhat fore. Jack smiled and silently thanked Mr Mowett, the officer of the watch. Stephen woke when Jack turned about in the cot, and Jack silenced him with his lips: with a deep slow warm kiss, and it was a while, a great while, before they climbed from the cot and got dressed. Then Jack called for their coffee and breakfast, opening the cabin door and raising his voice far above what was needed to stir Killick -- who was in fact already outside the cabin getting a tray together. Now the holystones scraped loud on the quarterdeck right over their heads, and Stephen, who was always grumpy before coffee, said, "Bah. This naval worship of cleanliness is heathenish, I say. Pagan superstition. Why must they destroy our peaceful breakfast, now? I did not hear them earlier."

"Did you not?" said Jack pleasantly, tying his neckcloth. After breakfast, Jack went on deck and made arrangements for the gig to take them across, then checked with Mr Lamb and Mr Hollar about the remaining repairs: all quite small, but with the East India Company being so handsome about the refitting, Jack thought they might take on a few extra fathoms of cordage and a few extra spars, just in case.

Ashore, Stephen left Jack seeing to the stores while he visited the hospital, and it was afternoon before Jack met him again. He returned to the odd lodging house, bowed to the old man who kept the door, and climbed the stairs to find Stephen sitting in the open window, legs dangling outside, his shirt open and breeches unbuckled at the knees. Jack stood for a moment, arrested by the attractive sight and uncertain if Stephen had marked his arrival. Stephen had; he turned and held out his hand, and Jack joined him in the window, holding his hand.

"What is that about your neck?" asked Jack.

Stephen looked down at the dark stone and said, "It is an emerald. It was a gift."

Jack was about to ask who would give Stephen such a thing and why, when he perceived that it was a gift for someone else: a woman, and that woman could be no other than Diana. To ask more would be vulgar; he touched the stone resting against Stephen's breast and said, "It is very comely, a very pretty thing."

Stephen took it off and held it up, smiling sadly. He let it dangle in front of Jack and squinted as if dazzled by the light reflecting off the small smooth surface. "Do you know," he said, "I have tried to get rid of it, more than once. And each time I find it is still in my hands, or in a pocket, or about my person. Shall I cast it from the window now? If I try, will it fly back up and land in my hand?" He held the chain out over the dirty square below.

"Don't," said Jack, reaching and clasping Stephen's outstretched hand and closing it over the necklace. He brought Stephen's fist to his lips and said, "It is too pretty to cast aside."

Stephen smiled and for a moment they gazed at each other, and Jack could not tell what was in Stephen's mind, but he felt the air change as surely and remarkably as it did at sea: then Stephen was kissing him, almost roughly, and the heat and desire which rushed through Jack made him feel somewhat drunk. In a knocking awkward chaotic motion they left the window and pulled at each other's clothes; Stephen tossed the necklace to the floor, where it ended up covered by Jack's stockings. Lying back on the bed, very eager and roused and ardent, Jack grabbed at Stephen and grasped him, and laughed from the pure excitement of it -- Stephen was hungry and passionate and insistent, and took him with such force that Jack's laughter was swept away into harsh gasping breath and the almost unbearable beating of his pulse drawn taut as a backstay, about to burst.

Swept away, as in a squall, and left drifting on a gently heaving current. A deep, deep, contented tiredness filled him and he lay motionless until the hot thick air felt cool on his skin. He rolled over onto Stephen, who hadn't moved, who made a hoarse noise and murmured, "You are grown fat." Jack chuckled and settled comfortably in his arms. Stephen stroked his back lazily, gave his rump a gentle pat, and reached to the floor and brought up a thin cigar which he lit from the small pink lantern that hung over the bed. Acrid smoke hung in a haze in the still air.

"What is this foul stuff?" Jack asked, taking the cigar from Stephen's fingers. He took a puff, nearly choked from the taste -- worse than the smell -- and took another puff before handing it back.

"It is bhang, a native hemp. I smoked my last cheroot six days ago, the pity of it. With familiarity, the taste grows milder," said Stephen, blowing out a waft of smoke.

"I dare say," said Jack with a cough. They shared the cigar to its very end, until Stephen's fingertips were blackened from it. Jack stretched on his back and grabbed at Stephen, pulling him over his lap and chuckling low: he was not sure why, although he was very happy. Stephen smiled down at him and stroked his hair and touched his lips.

"You have given me such an appetite, Jack Aubrey," Stephen said, twisting a lock of Jack's hair into a long coil and tugging on it.

"I am most concerned to hear it," Jack said, and he pulled Stephen forward to kiss his empty belly; and the taste of his skin -- strangely mingled with the bitter taste of the cigar -- and the heady smell of him stirred a hunger, a quite startling and new hunger, in Jack. A hunger which he indulged: the desire to taste and consume; and above him Stephen strained and released a hard breath. Jack felt quite drunk, yet unlike the familiar wine-warm drunkenness of many a night at sea. Though jolly still, for he kept chuckling, though muffled and deep in his throat -- and this seemed to answer very well with Stephen: very well. After the brief moment when all was silence, Stephen laughed, too: softly, with wonder, stroking Jack's hair over and over again.

"Now I am hungry," Jack said later, having drunk the last of Stephen's bottle of lemon-juice.

Stephen was sitting on the floor in front of the bed in his shirt. He had rolled Jack's stockings over Jack's toes and was smoothing them up his legs. He rested his chin on Jack's foot and said, "Then I shall find you a dinner, joy, of saffron rice and ripe mangosteen, on rich golden platters carried by dusky maidens..."

The words _dinner_ and _rich_ stirred Jack's memory and he slid forward, putting his hands on Stephen's shoulders and kissing his forehead. "God's my life, Stephen, I had forgotten. We are invited to a Company ball. They mean to do well by us, and I am sure there will be food. Whole heaps of food -- you remember how those Company chaps like to show away. We have time to get there, I believe, if we clap on and lose not a moment."

Stephen sat back and looked slightly sulky. "Must we go, then? The back of my hand to a Company ball, I say. Such ill-minded vulgar arrogant stupid prating..." He ranted on while Jack dressed, finishing at last with, "But all I have to wear is all that you see. Through some unfortunate misunderstanding, the only chests brought ashore were the ones containing my specimens from the Cape. And although no doubt the wildebeest's coat is much admired -- quite fashionable, I am sure -- among his own set, I do not think it would be quite the thing at a Company ball."

Jack looked at him fondly and helped him up from the floor. "Why, as to that: fret not, my plum. Your breeches and stockings will do, especially after sunset, and we can pretty your shoes with a handkerchief. See? Just so: it is only a little dust and mud. And I shall buy you a new coat -- yes, and a waistcoat, too. Green, I think," he said, buttoning Stephen's shirt and kissing his neck. "I should like to see you in a fine green coat, dancing away with some handsome lady. Hurry now: there is not a moment to be lost."

\-----

They did not lose a moment. From Mr Tildon Jack had heard of a row of tailors -- amazing fellows who could whip up a frock coat in no time at all. Insistent upon the green, Jack was not satisfied until the third house, when the smiling tailor brought forth a stunning green coat which was oddly half-sewn together in places. Stephen, trying it on, perceived that this was deliberate, and the tailor crawled around him, pinning and sewing as he went to get the best fit. Then he disappeared into a back room and while they waited the afternoon mellowed and aged to a purple sunset. Jack rummaged through a pile of silk-fronted waistcoats laid out on a table until he found one he liked. In new waistcoat and coat, Stephen felt very flash -- the coat was exceedingly handsome, although he did not trust that the hurried stitches would hold past the night.

But he was not sorry for it when they arrived at the ball: Company men and their wives were wealthy, and they liked to display their wealth. And for a moment, Stephen frowned with concern at the swelling sea of silks and garish colours mixed with the scarlet and gold and blue and gold of Marines and Navy officers -- for Jack had not worn his best gold-ribboned coat or hat, and there had not been time to get them from the ship. But looking at Jack, Stephen's concern faded. Jack stood straight and apparently unaware of his comparatively informal appearance: for Jack was a captain in His Majesty's Navy, while his hosts were men engaged in trade, even the glorious trade of the East India Company, and Jack's moral certainty of their relative hierarchy and importance in the world gave him a noble and dignified bearing that was unshakeable. The gold on his buttons seemed to shine as if newly polished, and the white of his waistcoat and breeches seemed to lose any hint of salt-worn roughness or rust.

They were quickly separated as grateful Company men -- the _Goshawk_ had been carrying over a hundred thousand pounds' worth of cargo -- swarmed around Jack in his progress toward one of the tables laden with food. Stephen found another, quieter table where he enjoyed little pastries and cakes and a glass of champagne in solitude, and watched the ball until he grew bored and wandered outside to partake of the evening air, only moderately cooler and no less humid than midday. Rustling in the grass just beyond the cast of the lantern caught his attention: he hoped it was a snake, and was disappointed when a woman's shoe was flung aside, followed by a muffled giggle. Returning to the ball, he paused by the open doors and watched Jack, huge and red-faced and merry, dancing with an adorable young woman in pale blue. When they were lost to sight by the couples following them, Stephen noticed a woman standing alone a few feet to his left. She was tall, very slender, with something of an understated elegance to her. She was not as beautiful as Diana, not as pretty as Sophie, and not as charming as the creature in pale blue being swept along by Captain Aubrey -- but in her own fashion she was handsome. Stephen, judging her upright posture and obvious lack of concern at being alone, decided she was very rich or very confident or both. After a moment or two, curious to see if she would notice his bald staring, he moved closer to her.

She looked at him, betraying nothing -- neither pleasure nor displeasure -- and he saw tiny lines about her eyes and grey hairs among the blond. Then she smiled politely. "Good evening, sir."

"Your servant, my lady," he said, making a leg. "Would you care to join the dance, or are you as enchanted by the spectacle as I? It is a wonder they do not collapse from the exertion, is it not?"

She watched the dancers for a moment, still smiling, reserved. "I must agree with you about the spectacle, although I am not sure I watch with enchantment or amusement. See there: he has trodden upon her dress, as I expected. She cries." She paused and added in a lower tone, "Serves him right for carrying on so in front of all his wife's friends."

Stephen stood closer, offered to bring her another glass of champagne, and when it had been delivered into her hands -- long-fingered bony hands; he wondered if she played piano at all -- he said, "Do you reside in these parts? I am a visitor here, but have enjoyed my stay."

She looked at him again. "A visitor, sir? One of the naval officers?" Stephen bowed his head. "Ah, then tell me: which one is Captain Aubrey? We hear so much of him. Oh," she said flatly when Stephen had pointed him out. "I thought he would be taller. And oh dear, such a laugh. So that is he..." she mused during the pause between dances. At the next she abruptly turned and presented her hand, and Stephen led her to the floor, intrigued and interested. They danced for two sets, never speaking beyond polite pleasantries about the music, the couples around them, and the delicious crescent-shaped pastries. Once he noticed her attention steadily directed elsewhere and turning with the music he saw Jack, now talking with some other officers and Company men. Clearly explaining some battle -- the peculiar arrangement of glasses and pastries on the table told its own tale -- and Stephen was filled with a momentary swell of pride, affection, and the dearest, most absurd love at seeing him there: Jack was quite unaware that he was being observed and quite unaffected by the press of fine satin and laced coats around his plain Navy broad-cloth.

When their second dance had ended, Stephen escorted his partner to a chair and sat with her, asking after a suitable interval, "And what, pray tell, have you heard of Captain Aubrey? Most men, I find, are sadly short of their legendary status, and Captain Aubrey is no exception -- but on the other hand, in most cases, the truth is more fascinating by being more wholly real."

She fanned herself with the ornate ivory-handled fan hanging from her wrist -- its edges were gilt and its silk was over-decorated: it was something from another age; looked very like a fan Marie Antoinette might have used to bat peasants out of the way. "I have heard of his great courage, of course," she said after a pause. "Who has not heard of the _Cacafuego_ or the _Acheron_? And my friend Mrs Keneally told me of him: he was kind to her after her husband died."

Stephen looked at her closely, shaken but determined to master his agitation with careful, precise and dispassionate observation. She had not noticed his reaction, if indeed it had been outward before he checked it: she was watching the dance. "Captain Aubrey has a kind nature," said Stephen: neutral, trying to sound a bit bored.

She did not respond, and when next she spoke it was to point out a drunken Marine lieutenant who was causing a stir. They danced again, and during the next pause Stephen asked with an air of polite disinterest, "Is your friend Mrs Keneally here this evening? Perhaps the old friends will reunite."

"No," she said. "Mrs Keneally has gone to Calcutta." Then she turned and smiled again and said, "How foolish I am! I do not even have your name, sir, and after such a fine turn."

"Doctor Maturin," he said, bowing and watching for a reaction. He detected none, but remained cautious; women could be very skillful at deception, with practice.

"I am Miss Forrester: Amelia. And that man over there, that bald man laughing with Captain Aubrey, is my brother George. He directs shipping for the Company."

Stephen learned little more the rest of the evening -- it appeared that Miss Forrester had only met Mrs Keneally recently, in India. He could not tell what, if any, untoward rumours Mrs Keneally had told her of Jack. He mused on this as they walked to the quay, and when they were alone and the only sound over their footsteps was Jack's humming, Stephen said, "Listen, Jack, I have had some news. The lady I was dancing with--"

"Lord, Stephen," cried Jack, interrupting. "What a fine handsome woman she was, too. Very pleasing, and I noticed you stayed by her. I wondered if I should be walking back alone," he added with a chuckle; he sounded a bit drunk.

"Listen now, honey," Stephen said, mildly annoyed. "Mrs Keneally is in India. Fled France, or perhaps was sent here, I do not know."

Jack stopped in the street and said in a low, startled tone, "Mrs Keneally? Oh God."

"Yes. She is not in Bombay, however, and I trust that we will not be stopping in Calcutta on our way home? Just so. Then she cannot do us any great harm, although I am very much interested to know what she is doing here and who her friends are."

"Stephen," Jack said as they resumed their walk. "Do you know, Mr Tildon remarked to me that it was as if the French had known exactly where to cruise and wait for the ships which were taken. The _Goshawk_ was meant to go out with several others, but got held back when her cargo was delayed. And three of their convoy were taken by Linois. And then of course there was the _Armide_ coming upon us like that: a very happy accident, if he had not known where to look for the _Goshawk_. You don't suppose--?"

"I suppose nothing," said Stephen. "I have only told you what I know."

"But should we not tell someone -- warn them? Tell the Company at least."

"We shall do no such thing." They had reached the quay, and Stephen saw the waiting gig. "Trust me in this, Jack. Ignorance of a threat is a great disguise at times, a great shield. Now listen, I must get my things from the room--"

"I will send Bonden and some stout hands for those," Jack said easily.

"Send Bonden and some stout hands, by all means, but I will be waiting. This will give me some time to take care of some things." He stopped next to one of the Company buildings and stepped back into the deep black shadows, gently tugging Jack's sleeve. Jack stepped into the darkness with him, and Stephen said quietly, "And so you shall be alone tonight, my dear, though I much regret it."

"Stephen..."

"Hush. I will be waiting for Bonden in the morning: he knows the place. You shall not miss your tide, nor shall I. Now let me kiss your cheek. There, it is done, and I shall see you tomorrow. And if you value your life -- to say nothing of your friends -- you will not drink up all the coffee."

He stayed in the blackness while Jack walked alone to the gig. He watched it push off, and stood for a long time even after he could no longer make it out over the dark water, though far off he thought he could make out the _Surprise_'s stern lantern. Then he walked slowly back to his room, longing for a cheroot -- the bhang, though pleasant, did not really satisfy in quite the same way -- and regretting the toasted cheese and port and music and warm pleasant company he would be missing tonight.

After a restless sleep Stephen woke up early and in the first light made his visits. The first to a neutral, very neutral, Armenian merchant who traded in many different goods. They had a pleasant conversation over strong, very sweet tea, and Stephen left feeling satisfied that Mrs Keneally had fewer friends here than he had feared, and what friends she had were not especially loyal. He guessed that this trip to India was her own idea, and although he could not be sure of it, this also gave him some easiness of mind.

His next visit was to a man he had never met but knew by name and reputation. It was almost inexcusably early, but when he gave the man Sir Joseph Blaine's greetings, he was welcomed into the house. It was not a long meeting, for of necessity they had little to speak of but the matter at hand. Again Stephen left feeling some satisfaction: the man had colleagues in Calcutta and Madras. Mrs Keneally could be found and watched, and in the meantime, the shipping schedules for the East India Company would be adjusted discreetly. In fact it had already been discussed to wait for a fleet arriving from the Cape.

He returned to his room only minutes before Bonden arrived with two of the _Surprise_'s largest and most reliable hands -- one of them devoted to Stephen for having saved his foot after a loose gun had rolled over it during gunnery exercises. As they sat in the little boat, cramped with Stephen's specimen chests, Bonden said, "Well, doctor, it will be right and proper to have you aboard again, so it will. Some of the men have said as they didn't like to come over poorly without Doctor Maturin aboard. My cousin Joe said as how it stood to reason: there weren't no sense in getting sick without a true physician to put you to rights."

\-----

Jack's pen scratched over the paper as the final rays of daylight stretched into the great cabin through the stern windows: reaching as far as the glasses of wine on the table and casting a red glow over the charts and sheets of music.

H.M.S. _Surprise_  
at sea

> My dearest beloved Sophie,
> 
> We have left the Cape and are on our way to you. Not flying as I had hoped, for we must escort this sluggish ugly brute the _Goshawk_, an Indiaman, but sailing for home at last. We left Mr Pelham in Simon's Town. He wished to stay there and make his fortune -- how I cannot guess. I suppose I was not so friendly to him as I might have been, but I could not like the man.
> 
> Stephen is in good spirits, quite wholly taken with the little beast we brought him from the Mozambique. It hangs about in his cabin and likes the darkness. You would not credit how its eyes glow -- quite unnatural and sinister, but it is such a small thing, and most gentle and amiable around Stephen -- and Killick, who adores it.
> 
> I am in good spirits, too, my sweet, for the dear _Surprise_ is fit and dry and happy, and with her doctor back, and if there is not a packet in Gibraltar to carry this letter to you, then it shall be carried by your husband and delivered by him into your own lovely hands.
> 
> The East India Company did very handsome by me, and though it is nothing like a prize, they did give me some very pretty plates, and as we already have the fine set of plates, I think this set will fetch a good price, and I have been thinking about the cottage. Perhaps we might start on the wing for Stephen's room _and_ the wing for Mrs Williams ...

The pen scratched away. Stephen sat on the bench and tuned his cello, and the galago perched on Stephen's chair, asleep. Jack wrote on and on until Stephen tweaked his braid and said, "Are we ever to have our music, at all?" And peering over Jack's shoulder he added, "I wonder the poor dear gets anything done, has any time after reading these ponderous great tomes of yours."

"Sophie says she reads them every evening," said Jack with an air of self-satisfaction, setting down his pen. He tucked the papers into his log book, and within moments the cabin was filled with the sound of their music, heard above the ship's creaking and the wind in her rigging, and as natural and familiar.

\-----

HMS _Surprise_  
at sea

> My dear Sophie,
> 
> How soon we shall see you. That is what your husband believes, and I have no reason to doubt it. I look forward to it, for I shall be able to hold your hands and kiss your cheeks.
> 
> I am sending you a necklace with an emerald on it. You are not to suppose that I am making bold with my dearest friend's wife, though I would gladly give it if it would lift your spirits and cause you joy. But as it was intended for another, perhaps you would not choose to wear it. You may keep it for me -- I do not believe I shall want it, but in time, many beliefs may change -- or you may use it as you wish, if it will do you some good. If Captain Greenway still bothers you, dear, you have my leave to give it to him.
> 
> I hope you are eating well and drinking your porter, and are free from cares. Your one great care -- that of seeing your husband again -- shall presently be answered, for I am bringing him to your side, as swiftly as ever this vessel will carry us.
> 
> Very affectionately yours,  
> Stephen Maturin

"Lord, Stephen," said Jack, lifting the sealed envelope to enclose it with the others in the waxed oilcloth parcel. "Whatever did you send her?"

"It was only a curious stone from the Cape. I did not have the heart to tell her that the rats have been at my stockings, knit by her own fair hand. Do you think she will notice, now?"

Jack glanced at Stephen's outstretched leg and the pale dots of skin showing forth, thinking Sophie would have to be strangely unobservant or blind not to notice, but said only, "Well, no doubt she has already knitted you a new pair. Now be a good fellow and tie my hair, my dear. The packet will be gone without we hurry, and then what flats we should look, carrying this great parcel of mail to a boat that ain't there, ha ha."

"Always this same mad call to hurry..." said Stephen mildly as he tied Jack's hair, but said nothing more. And Jack smiled at him fondly, for it was a clear dazzling day on the wide empty sea, and they were on the dear old _Surprise_: together, as of course they should be.

(the end)


End file.
